“Anytime,” Skirata said.

He noted the blasterproof assault shields erected across the main entrance: four squads of Republic Commandos stood behind them, DC-17 rifles ready. He glanced up at the roof, and there were two commando sniper teams spread out along the parapet as well. Yes, if a bunch of Null-class Advance Recon Commandos didn't want to cooperate, then it would take a lot of equally hard men to persuade them otherwise. And he knew that none of the commandos would be happy about being ordered in to do the persuading. They were brothers, even if the ARCs were rather different men at heart.

Skirata shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and focused on the doors. “So what started all this, then?”

Camas shook his head. “They're scheduled to be chilled down now that they're back from Geonosis, because nobody can command them.”

“I can.”

“I know. Please, get them to stand down.”

“They're even more of a handful than the regular Alpha-batch ARCs, aren't they?”

“I know that, Sergeant.”

“So you wanted the hardest troops you could buy to take on the enemy, and then you got cold feet when they turned out to be too hard.”

“Sergeant—”

“I'm a civilian at the moment, actually.”

Camas took a silent breath. “Can you get them to surrender? They've shut down the whole barracks!”

“I can.” Skirata wondered if the clone troopers were looking sideways at him, or in the direction they appeared to be facing. You could never tell with their helmets on. “But I won't.”

“I really don't want any casualties. Are you holding out for an increased fee?”

Skirata was a mercenary, but the suggestion insulted him. Camas couldn't be expected to know how he felt about his men, though. He made an effort not to be annoyed. “Enlist me in the Grand Army of the Republic and give me back my lads. Then we'll see.”

“What?”

“They're terrified of chill-down, that's all. You have to understand what happened to them as kids.” Camas gave him an odd look. “And don't even think about mind influence, General.”

Skirata didn't give a mott's backside about pay. Eight years spent on Kamino training special forces for the Republic's clone army had made him wealthy, and if they wanted to press more credits on him, that was fine; he'd have a good use for them. But what he wanted most right then, and what had made him happy to return with the CSF officers instead of showing them just how handy he was with a fighting knife, was not being safe in a soft civilian life when his men were fighting a desperate, bloody war.

And he needed to be back with them. He hadn't even had the chance to say good-bye when they suddenly shipped out to Geonosis. He'd lasted five miserable days without them, days without purpose, days without family.

“Very well,” Camas said. “Special adviser status. I can authorize that, I suppose.”

Skirata couldn't see the commandos' faces behind their visors, but he knew they'd be watching him carefully. He recognized some of the paint schemes on their Katarn armor: Jez from Aiwha-3 Squad, and Stoker from Gamma, and Ram from Bravo up on the roof. Incomplete squads: high casualties on Geonosis, then. His heart sank.

He began walking forward. He got to the blaster shields, and Jez touched his glove to his helmet. “Nice to see you back so soon, Sarge.”

“Couldn't stay away,” Skirata said. “You okay?”

“It's a laugh a minute, this job.”

Camas called out, “Sergeant? Sergeant! What if they open fire—”

“Then they open fire!” Skirata reached the doors and turned his back on them for a few moments, unafraid. “Do we have a deal? Or do you want me holed up in there with them? Because I won't be coming out unless you guarantee them no disciplinary action.”

It struck Skirata that Camas might be the one to fire on him right then. He wondered if his commandos would obey that order if it were given. He wouldn't have minded if they had. He'd taught them to do their job, regardless of their own feelings.

“You have my word,” Camas said. “Consider yourself in the Grand Army. We'll discuss how we're going to deploy you and your men later. But first let's get everyone back to normal, shall we, please?”

“I'll hold you to every last word, General.”

He waited at the doors for a few moments. The two sheets of reinforced durasteel parted slowly. He walked in, relieved, and home again at last.

No, Camas really needed to understand what had happened to these men as young boys. He had to, if he was going to cope with the war that had now been unleashed.

It wouldn't just be fought on someone else's planet. It would be fought in every corner of the galaxy, in every city, in every home. It was a war not just of territories, but of ideologies.

And it was wholly outside Skirata's Mandalorian philosophy: but it was his war regardless, because his men were its instrument whether they liked it or not.

One day, he would give them back something the Kaminoans and the Republic had stolen from them. He swore it.

“Ord'ika!” he called. “Ordo? You've been a naughty boy again, haven't you? Come here…”

2

Yes, I know I should be directing the battle from the ship. Yes, I know we could reduce the surface of Dinlo to molten slag from orbit. But we can extract more than a thousandmen, and that's worth doing. I asked for volunteers and I got the whole ship's crew and every man in Improcco Company, and not from blind obedience. Let me try.

–General Tur-Mukan, in a signal to General Iri Camas, Battle Group Command, Coruscant, copied to General Vaas Ga, Commanding Officer, Sarlacc Battalions,Forty-first Elite Infantry, Dinlo

Republic assault shipFearless,approaching Dinlo,Expansion–Bothan Border, 367 days after Geonosis

General Etain Tur-Mukan watched the HNE news feed with mixed feelings. On one hand the events at home saddened her: on the other, they reminded her what the war was about.

“Fifteen soldiers and twelve civilian support staff are reported dead after today's second bomb blast, this time at a GAR logistics base. No group has yet claimed responsibility for the attack, but a security forces spokesman said today that the proximity to tomorrow's first anniversary of the Battle of Geonosis was significant. It brings the total number of deaths in apparent Separatist terror attacks this year to three thousand and forty. The Senate has pledged to smash their networks …”

Clone Commander Gett stood at her side, hands clasped behind his back as they waited on the repulsor platform that shunted ammo boxes from the magazine to the hangar deck.

“No way to die,” he said.

Etain turned to look at the troops around them. “Neither is this.”

They were set to go. Fearless was half an hour out from Dinlo and the gunship pilots were making their way down the passage from the flight briefing to carry out their pre-sortie checks, yellow-trimmed helmets tucked under one arm. They all held the helmets exactly the same way, no doubt the result of thorough drill. General Etain Tur-Mukan noted that.

She stood back from the hatch to let them through and got a salute from each as he passed. One glanced at the somewhat unconventional weapon slung across her shoulder and grinned. He indicated the huge LJ-50 concussion rifle that almost dwarfed her.

“Does that thing light up blue, General?”

“Only if you're on the receiving end, trooper,” she said, and gave him her most reassuring smile.

She knew they were afraid, because a commando called Darman had taught her that only idiots didn't fear combat. Fear was an asset, an incentive, a tool. She knew how to use it now, even if she didn't embrace it.